One Flogged Horse aka An Overused Plotline
by Twisted Biscuit
Summary: Parody. Tom Riddle mysteriously gets his hands on the Harry Potter books. Rather than just make pithy observations, he decides to do something about his future. As for those whose futures are flushed down the toilet... well, who really cares about them?
1. Pfft, twaddle

**Standard Disclaimer:** It's being posted on Fanfiction dot net. How much more proof do you need that I don't own the franchise?

**Explanation For Those Who Need It:** A popular, and very entertaining, plot in the Harry Potter fandom is to have the actual Harry Potter books sent back to the Marauders' time and have them read the aforementioned books while making pithy observations (Please Note: The term "Marauders", in this context, is generally accepted to mean James, Sirius, Remus and Lily).

This is not one of those stories, though it does resemble it in quite a few major aspects. I should also note that I generally enjoy these stories, but have been getting more than a little irritated with the lack of logic applied to them. Hence this story.

* * *

Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle was sitting in the crowded Slytherin Common Room, at ten o'clock at night, putting the finishing touches on his Arithmancy essay. It was an appallingly dull reiteration of OWL-grade work, which the teacher felt the need to revisit for the benefit of the more idiotic students. While Tom could tolerate such pointless digressions (they gave him more time to focus on his real studies, after all), he was somewhat amazed that the teacher had not resorted to throwing himself out of a window when a NEWT level student actually asked if Septenaric Sequential Theory was really necessary to the study of Arithmancy.

It was rather like going to Dumbledore and saying "Excuse me Sir, but is a wand really _necessary_ for Transfiguration?"

The inanities his classmates came out with on occasion were utterly absurd.

To make matters worse, there was only one other student who had seemed even vaguely as annoyed as him, and that was Minerva McGonagall. And given McGonagall's rather vehement dislike of him, Tom wasn't even able to pursue her as a possible ally, as he would have done with any other student in that position.

He didn't really know why she disliked him so much. He'd actually asked her once, and her only response had been to say that he put her on edge. Again, had it been anyone but McGonagall, Tom would've taken this to mean that she harboured a crush on him. However the idea of Minerva McGonagall, Quidditch champion, teachers pet, and general ice-queen, having anything so childish as a 'crush' was quite ridiculous. A fact which actually increased his respect for her, but also managed to annoy him greatly.

He imagined McGonagall sitting up in Gryffindor Tower, finishing up the painfully simple essay with similar (though not quite as much) ease to himself. She was probably surrounded by twittering bimbos, who were quoting Witch Weekly, preening over their hair and giggling about 'boys'. In fact they were probably giggling about him, to be perfectly honest. Tom allowed himself a smirk as he imagined McGonagall's impatience and misery.

She really was an insufferable shrew.

Of course, the fact that she was Dumbledore's favourite also encouraged Tom's distaste for her. Just last week she had transformed a desk into a Great Dane, simply because Olive Hornby had said that no one their age could do it. Rather than turn it back and give a stern lecture, as he would've done with Tom, Dumbledore had awarded her ten points for Gryffindor. It was sickening.

Still, he couldn't get too smug over his rival's misery and discomfort. Not while he was sitting in a Common Room that was populated by the sycophants, inbreeds and Neanderthals, commonly referred to as the Slytherin Quidditch Team. They had just had just returned from practise, after apparently mastering a series of fouls called '_Blagging_' '_Blatching_' '_Blurting_' and '_Cobbing_'. They were all rather proud of themselves, and being very vocal about this fact. It was fortunate then, that all Tom had to do was sign his name and then he could go to his dormitory and read a book.

Hopefully before any of those numbskulls noticed him and he was forced to make conversation.

"Hey! Tommy Boy! Didn't see you there! Come over, celebrate our inevitable victory over Gryffindor next week!" Maxwell Flint called over, jovially.

Tom suppressed a groan.

- - -

It was nearly midnight before Tom managed to escape the Quidditch team.

True, he could've left much sooner than that had he placed slightly less importance on maintaining good relations with his housemates. As it was, he'd had to make nice and pretend to give a damn as they droned on about that idiotic sport.

He'd also heard more than a few unkind words about Minerva McGonagall over the course of the evening, leading him to conclude that she was a far better Chaser than he'd previously imagined. But, fascinating though such information was, Tom honestly didn't care. In fact, by that point all he really wanted to do was go to bed, go to sleep, and wake up with renewed fake-enthusiasm for his imbecilic classmates in the morning. This very simple plan was put somewhat at risk, by the small, square, parcel that was sitting on his bed as he returned.

Tom froze in the doorway and frowned in confusion.

Behind him, the door to his dormitory swung shut. It closed with a quiet thud and prompted Tom to send a cursory glance around his sleeping dorm-mates. The five other boys who shared his room slept on in peace, apparently unperturbed by the recent addition to his bed. This indicated that they were all already asleep when it arrived - had they been awake, he would've been fetched by one of them while the others came up with ludicrous suggestions about the contents of said box. Not that his dorm-mates were insatiably curious about parcels or anything, they were just insatiably curious whenever _he_ received a parcel.

Other boys got packages from home on a fairly regular basis. These packages contained sweets, or clothes, or books, or reminders of home… These packages were so regular for most of them, that they barely elicited a raised eye from the others.

But when Tom Riddle received a package, it was an entirely different story. There were a limited number of explanations for someone like him to receiving a parcel in the middle of the night, or indeed at any time. (The package had clearly been sent after nine, as that was the last time he had checked his dormitory, meaning that it was obviously intended to arrive in the middle of the night, rather than at the breakfast table the following morning.) So, Tom thought, knitting his eyebrows together, what were the reasonable explanations for such an event? And, for that matter, how the heck had it got in without waking his dorm mates?

It could be a gift, he supposed. Around Valentines Day, Christmas and his birthday it was not uncommon for his peers and admirers to send him a token of their appreciation. And by 'tokens of their appreciation' he did mean 'bribes' - whether they were bribes to gain his favour within Slytherin, bribes to gain access to his school notes, or bribes from whatever frivolous, hormone-fuelled bit of fluff had recently decided that he was her One True Love - such gifts were not uncommon.

Alternatively, it could be magical supplies. With Slughorn singing his praises from the rooftops, certain entrepreneurial individuals felt the need to send him their merchandise. Whether they did so out of the kindness of their hearts, to encourage him to join their line of work, or simply to make them feel better about themselves… well, that he couldn't comment on. Or feign interest in, come to mention it. 'Supplies' like that usually came in the form of books, or occasionally magical objects and potions ingredients. He didn't get that many, however those he did receive had, until now, trickled in shortly after one of Slughorn's parties.

All Tom knew for certain was that it was a bit late for his birthday or Valentines day, and it was six weeks early for Christmas. He hadn't ordered anything, and it had been two and a half months since Slughorn had held a party. While these facts didn't rule anything out, exactly, they did leave Tom somewhat suspicious of the package currently nestled on his bedcovers.

Adding to his suspicion was the fact that said package was red.

Not dark red, or orange-red, or anything; it was red in the purest sense of the word. Had the package been placed at the far end of the school lawns, Tom felt certain he would still be able to see it clearly. This was actually saying something, as the package was not that big.

True, it wasn't small, but it wasn't especially large either. Had it not been about six inches long, he would have presumed it was a novel or some such. However the idea of such a ridiculously large novel was quite laughable.

Deciding that there was really nothing for it, Tom moved over to his bed. He kicked off his shoes, perched himself on the covers and pulled his bed-hangings tightly shut. After all, if it was something interesting then he did not want to share it with his dorm-mates, and if it was something ridiculous from an admirer (such as a bright pink rabbit - he was thankful to this day that no one but himself had seen that particular monstrosity) then he didn't want any of them spotting it and getting ideas.

Tom touched his wand to the package. "_Diffindo_." he murmured.

The scarlet paper was sliced neatly in half, before wilting noiselessly onto the bedspread. After a swift examination of the paper, Tom concluded that it was useless and dealt with it accordingly, vanishing it into thin air with a wave of his wand and a puff of smoke. Next, he turned his attention to the contents of said paper.

They were books. Seven of them to be precise. Three which looked disappointingly short (he'd be able to finish all three of them within twenty four hours and still attend classes), and four which looked like Encyclopaedias.

Tom couldn't see the covers properly, due to an extremely wide length of gold ribbon that had been wrapped around them. What he _could_ see, however, was the title - "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone". Tom's interest was immediately piqued. Not by the first part of the title (who honestly gave a damn about some twerp called Harry Potter, after all?), but by the second. The Philosopher's Stone, he thought hungrily.

If this person, this Harry Potter, had made the Philosopher's Stone, and was sending him instructions of some kind… Or even if he was sending him his research… Tom ripped the ribbon apart, and tossed it away, momentarily forgetting about his wand and wearing an expression not unlike his dorm-mates when they received a new broomstick. The ribbon fell out of sight, slipping between Tom's bed-hangings and his bed, and landing silently on the floor, as Tom dove for the books with a fervour.

He froze when he saw the cover though.

On the front there was a picture of a young boy, looking alarmed while standing next to a - -highly inaccurate- - rendition of the Hogwarts express. On the back, there was a drawing of a man who looked disconcertingly like Professor Dumbledore, and was carrying what appeared to be a grimoire. The blurb went on about Harry Potter being rescued by an owl, and (shockingly enough) being a Wizard.

It was a _novel_, Tom realised with disgust after a moment staring at the ridiculous thing. What in the name of Salazar Slytherin was the _point_ in sending _him_ a novel, he wondered. He didn't put much serious thought into the matter, however.

He flicked the book open to check that it was, in fact, a novel, rather than the grimoire alluded to on the back cover, or something similar. Even as his eyes began to ache with increased tiredness, he began poring over the first page, alert to any possible secret meanings hidden within the text.

By the time Tom reached the word "**unDursleyish**", however, his mind was made up.

"Pfft," he dismissed, shoving the book unceremoniously under his bed. "Twaddle." The other books swiftly followed, when Tom saw that all seven of them were headed with the name 'Harry Potter'. And though he was mildly curious as to how they had got into his dormitory without being detected, he certainly wouldn't be going through them anytime soon.

Banishing the good-for-nothing tomes from his mind, not to mention the feckless twit who sent them, Tom began getting ready for bed. His thoughts quickly turned to more wholesome pursuits, such as absolute power, world domination, and, of course, showing up that McGonagall bint in Transfiguration…


	2. Reassessing the Current Situation

It was nearly two weeks later before Tom took another look at the novels under his bed.

He had been sitting in Potions on Thursday afternoon, smirking with unadulterated glee as Augusta Meldrum's cauldron began to spew out acrid black smoke, effectively asphyxiating the student at the next table, who was none other than Minerva McGonagall. Slughorn was at the other side of the room when it happened, and though he started waddling over immediately Tom couldn't help but suspect that a bit more damage would be done before he got there.

"Sorry! Sorry!" cried Meldrum desperately.

McGonagall was spluttering away with tears forming in her eyes as she slowly turned purple. She would not, however, move until she'd finished stirring her potion the required forty-seven times. The moment she did she collapsed to the floor, sucking in as much oxygen as she could possibly manage.

"What's going on here then?" Slughorn asked good-naturedly. He must've already known, but he asked anyway.

"Nothing, Professor," Meldrum assured him, rummaging for her next ingredient, even as McGonagall continued hacking on the floor. "I think I just need to add some boomslang-"

"NO!" Slughorn bellowed. Tom also saw McGonagall make a move for something. But it was too late.

Meldrum, the blibbering fool, had tossed in the remainder of her supply of boomslang skin. As soon as it made contact with the simmering potion the concoction went up like a bomb, sending boiling liquid and suffocating purple smoke everywhere. Even Tom, who had enviable reflexes, barely managed to drop behind his cauldron for protection.

He reached over to his bag and whipped out his wand. After a quick Bubblehead Charm, he got to his feet and surveyed the damage.

Through the thick smoke, Tom could see that most student were making a mad dash for the door. Slughorn, whose wand had been in his pocket rather than his book bag, had been able to protect himself from the potion itself but was now being smothered by the smoke. On the other side of the offending cauldron, Tom thought he could make out Augusta Meldrum's unconscious and badly scalded form.

Tom rolled his eyes at her idiocy and turned away, grabbing Slughorn's arm as he did so. He performed a similar Bubblehead Charm to his own on his professor, and led him to the door. "This way Professor," he assured the older man. "The door's this way."

If Slughorn favoured him before, Tom thought with satisfaction, it would be nothing compared to now.

But for the first time in six years, Professor Slughorn surprised him. He shook his head vehemently. "Students," he gasped. "Get students out."

Tom froze. "But Professor," he said carefully. "the door's right here. Wouldn't it be better for you to-"

"I must get them out!" Slughorn practically shouted. This admirable, though decidedly un-Slytherin sentiment, was followed by a hacking cough which nearly brought the Professor to his knees.

Propping him up, Tom suppressed another eye roll. "I'll get them," Tom said, in a resigned sort of way. "I'll get them out."

"Good man." Slughorn managed, as he willingly stumbled for the door. "Good man."

Tom growled and turned on his heel, marching into the room like a strict teacher striding into a noisy classroom. He walked up and down the dungeon, checking every workstation he could think of before forcing himself to go check on the Meldrum moron. The rest of the room was clear, though, and so he supposed he would be forced to save the daft girl. Though anyone moronic enough to add boomslang skin to a highly reactive Conclave Concoction deserved to be scalded and left for dead in Tom's opinion.

Much to his alarm, however, Augusta Meldrum was not lying by her cauldron where he'd left her. In fact, with such low visibility, Tom could not see her lying anywhere. However he doubted that she'd got up of her own accord and wandered out. Curious, Tom extinguished the fire underneath Meldrum's work-stand. Almost immediately, the loud hissing and bubbling that had been coming from her cauldron stopped, allowing Tom to listen harder.

To his left, the faint sound of quiet grunting caught his attention. He immediately set off to investigate, but he hardly got two paces before he nearly tripped over Meldrum's unconscious body. More startlingly, had he tripped he now realised that he would've landed directly on McGonagall's struggling form.

"What are you doing?" He snapped angrily. Of course it was already quite obvious what she was doing: She was trying her best to haul Meldrum to the door despite her obvious difficulty with the smoke flooding her lungs. At the time, though, Tom hadn't been able to think of anything else to say that would communicate his displeasure at her actions.

McGonagall's only answer was to cough a bit more and continue heaving.

Muttering mutinously, Tom pointed his wand at her and cast yet another Bubblehead Charm. Really, why he was the only person to think of it so far was beyond him. He also muttered a quick "_Locomotor_" later and Meldrum was floating effortlessly towards the door.

"You are a witch, McGonagall, you need not haul things around like a carthorse," Riddle said disdainfully. "Or had you forgotten?"

McGonagall glared at him. "I lost my wand in the explosion." she informed him coolly.

So that was what she'd been going for before Meldrum's cauldron exploded. "Oh, even better," he sneered. "Throwing spells around the place next to a volatile-"

"It wasn't volatile _then_!" McGonagall hissed. "I was trying to disarm Augusta before she put that boomslang skin, you self-satisfied twit."

Tom couldn't think of a suitably scathing response to this proclamation, as it actually made a lot of sense. Indeed, now that he thought about it, if Slughorn had been able to defend himself he should have almost certainly been able to disarm the inept girl before she caused so much damage. Or, at least, he should have if he'd thought of it rather than simply protecting himself. Unwilling to let McGonagall feel superior for more than three seconds, however, Tom turned away from the inimitable shrew and summoned her wand for her.

As it flew towards them McGonagall made to grab it out of the air, but Tom was faster. As his hand closed around it the smooth mahogany wood, he distinctly heard McGonagall growl. The noise made him smile, as he turned around and handed it to her in a decidedly gentlemanly fashion. "Your wand, Miss McGonagall." he said pleasantly.

McGonagall glowered at him and snatched it away, stomping off without so much as a 'thank you'. Tom hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not to curse the ungrateful wench. He lowered his wand, however, and walked after her with as much dignity as he could muster.

When he emerged in the clear hallway with Meldrum floating by his side, Tom fully expected the ensuing adulation of his peers. He was clapped on the back, complimented and, in one or two cases, applauded. Olive Hornby also let out an appallingly fake sob of terror, as she claimed she'd thought he was dead. It was mildly nauseating, but gratifying nonetheless.

"Right, right!" Slughorn called over the class. "That's everyone. Smith, take Meldrum up to the Hospital Wing. Tom my boy, you stay here. The rest of you, back to your dormitories until your next class."

"Yes, sir." Smith said, scuttling off to do as instructed while the other students slowly dispersed, most of them clapping Tom on the back one more time before they left. McGonagall, he noticed, lingered at the end of the passageway, looking curious.

Professor Slughorn puffed himself up importantly and walked over. He was shaking his head from side to side and smiling. "Well, my boy, I think a reward is in order," he declared, much to Tom's lack-of-surprise. "Yes, certainly," he continued, apparently interpreting Tom's blank look as amazement rather than disinterest. "Lets see, for selflessness, quick-thinking and cool headedness, I'd say thirty five points for Slytherin."

Tom actually smiled this time. Not at the points awarded, but at the look of incredulity on McGonagall's face as she - she who had tried to avert the incident completely and had stayed behind to help her fellow student despite her lack of wand - was completely ignored by the glowing Slughorn.

"Thank you very much, sir," Tom simpered a tad louder than was necessary. "Really, you're too kind." Tom distinctly saw McGonagall's face twist with revulsion as she disappeared haughtily round the corner.

"Not at all, Tom, not at all," Slughorn told him. "Why, if I didn't have to change my robes and meet with Mr. Kruckel, I'd take you up to Professor Dippet's office right now and tell him-"

"Kruckel, sir?" Tom interrupted. "Gereant Kruckel? The Auror?"

Slughorn's expression darkened. "Yes, him," he stated. "A right pain in the backside, that man. Been pestering me for weeks. Anyway, Tom m'boy, we mustn't be talking about that! Now, how would you feel being the guest of honour at the Slug Club Christmas Party?"

"Yeah, fine," Tom agreed without interest. "Why has Gereant Kruckel been pestering you, sir? I thought he worked with the Department of Mysteries?"

"Well-informed, aren't you, Tom?" Slughorn chortled.

Tom would have mentioned that he was well-informed about Gereant Kruckel because he had been intending to question him on Horcruxes for quite some time now, as he knew the Krucker had personally apprehended the last known maker of a Horcrux. Such a revelation seemed imprudent though. However if Krucker was on the premises…

"Yes, well, Krucker's been harassing me about some object or another that caused a bit of a 'temporal rift' a fortnight ago," Slughorn rambled on. "Some rectangular box or something apparently travelled through time in the dungeons, Friday before last. The Department of Mysteries told him. He's quite obsessed, even though I've _told_ the gormless fool a thousand times that there's nothing in Hogwarts that can enable time travel."

Tom was nodding along without really paying attention, so it took a few seconds for Slughorn's statement to sink in. When it did, all Tom's grey matter suddenly sat up and paid attention. "Friday before last, sir?" he asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"Mm-hmm," Slughorn nodded. It took a moment before he looked up curiously. "Why, you don't know anything about it do you?"

"No, sir," Tom respond promptly, a cover story springing immediately to mind. "I was just trying to think if anything happened in the dungeons that night, sir." Of course, he knew that one particular thing had definitely happened in the dungeons that night, but he had to be sure it was the same thing.

Slughorn accepted Tom's story like a pauper would accept gold. "I wouldn't bother yourself about it, Tom," Slughorn sighed. "If this berk is right -which I sincerely doubt, by the way, - then the entire bloody thing is less that a foot long and only a few inches tall. How are we supposed to find something like that in a castle this size, eh? And, as I've told the man a dozen times over, there's nothing that can time travel in Hogwarts at the moment. But does he listen?"

Tom's mind was buzzing with so many possibilities that he had to work very hard to appear insouciant in front of Slughorn. "I suppose Aurors are always a bit tenacious, sir." he said in his most sympathetic tone. Before Slughorn could comment on this observation, he continued in an apparently surprised tone. "Oh, I am sorry, sir. I didn't mean to keep you, if you have an appointment."

He and Slughorn quickly said their goodbyes, and the Professor hurried along the passageway. Remaining rooted to the spot, Tom was suddenly aware that his hands had somehow formed tight fists without his permission. His fingernails were now pressing into the palm of his hand.

Time Travel? A time travelling rectangular object, in the dungeons, on the night he received a mysterious package that somehow managed to get into his windowless dormitory without alerting his dorm-mates?

Tom turned and sprinted towards the Slytherin Dungeon, shoving a group of highly alarmed first years out of his way in his hurry to get back to his dormitory.

Those books, he thought wildly, those meaningless novels - They weren't meaningless, they couldn't be. People didn't go to the bother of sending pointless novels across the boundaries of time, did they? But what could they possibly mean? Were they written in code? Were they other, more useful, objects transfigured into second-rate novels? What did it _mean_?

A moment later Tom burst into his dormitory, to find Julian Avery using his limited time in the deserted room to ogle pictures he'd taken of Emmeline Vance sunbathing the previous year.

"Uh, h-hi?" Julian greeted.

"Hello. Get out," Tom instructed him matter-of-factly.

Avery did as he was told, and did so with commendable haste. In the meantime, Tom began casting a few privacy charms on his bed hangings. It occurred to him that his dorm mates would probably assume he was doing something quite different to what he actually intended to do. But, no matter what they assumed he was doing, Tom knew they wouldn't bother him in the middle of it.

As the door swung shut behind Avery, Tom dropped to the floor and dug out the novels he'd thrown under the bed. They were still there, albeit covered in a thin layer of dust now. He pulled all seven of them out and placed them carefully onto the bed covers, before taking a seat beside them and yanking his hangings shut. They were completely intact, he noted with relief, except for the fact that they were now out of order.

The three smaller ones had been at the front, he was sure, not the middle. This meant that he had to reorganise them before he so much as glanced through the first one.

It wasn't that hard, and only took him a minute. He was, however, quite alarmed by some titles. _The Prisoner Of Azkaban_, for example, did not instil him with great confidence. _The Goblet of Fire_ caused him to recall a passage he'd read in 'An Appraisal Of Magical Education in Europe' in his second-year about the long abandoned Triwizard Tournament, and his forgotten, twelve-year-old fantasies of winning the Tournament. And then, of course, there was the most disconcerting - _Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets_.

Tom didn't know who the hell this Harry Potter was, but he liked him more if he managed to get into the Chamber of Secrets.

Opening the first book, Tom vowed not to miss a thing. He turned to the very first page, which held publishing details. It was there he learned that the book had first been published in 1997, some fifty-two years into the future.

As he turned the page hungrily, it occurred to him that he should perhaps fetch some parchment and a quill to note down anything he noticed in particular. But then, he thought, he should probably get a general idea for the things first. It also occurred to him that the book may be cursed, though he seriously doubted it. Tom Riddle could feel magic with great ease, and he failed to see why this should be any different.

With this in mind, he settled in to read. He was only a few pages into the first chapter when his eyes skimmed over the word "Voldemort".

Tom Riddle promptly screamed.

- - -

For the next three days, Tom was rarely seen without a book in his hands. He'd covered them, of course, so that they now appeared to the rest of the world to be P.G. Wodehouse novels. Fortunately for him, he only had one day of classes before the weekend. Still, that didn't stop him from losing ten of the House Points he had acquired in the Potions fiasco, simply by reading the novels in class. Nor did it stop him from failing an assignment in Transfiguration (turn a footstool into a tabby cat) for the first time in his life

"Mr. Riddle, are you quite all right?" Dumbledore had asked him, after summoning Tom to his desk at the end of the lesson. "You seem more than a little distracted. Might I inquire as to what's wrong?"

"Nothing, sir," Tom had lied, as he gripped Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire tightly inside his bag. "I was just, ah-" he cleared his throat and adopted an embarrassed expression. "To be honest sir, I don't really like cats."

Minerva McGonagall chose that moment to stroll back into the classroom, holding an utterly perfect tabby cat. "Sorry, Professor Dumbledore," she said pleasantly. "I was playing with him earlier and he got away from me."

"Quite all right, Minerva, I saw you go after him," Dumbledore said with a kindly smile.

Tom fought back a wave of nausea, and gripped the book (ostensibly 'Leave it to Psmith') even tighter while Dumbledore congratulated his favourite student on transfiguring a cat so realistic that it reacted that strongly to conjured cat-nip.

After a few more moments of the sickening display, Tom had been released and left free to race up to the Astronomy Tower - which was usually deserted during the day - and finish his book.

On the rare occasions when Tom was not absorbed in his books, such as mealtimes and whenever he was forced to do a piece of homework, he was heard to be muttering savagely under his breath about Dumbledore, McGonagall, and someone called "The Dark Lord" or, as Tom more frequently referred to him, "That Bloody Idiot".

Tom himself was looking more and more harassed as the weekend wore on. His hair and uniform, which were usually in perfect order, had acquired a slightly dishevelled look. True, he was still better groomed than most, but for Tom Riddle attending class with a slightly loose tie was akin to turning up without trousers on.

By Saturday evening he had stopped attending meals altogether. His hair looked as though he had run his hands through it so often that it would never again lie flat, and the shadows under his eyes had become positively terrifying. Rumours naturally flew around Hogwarts, though with slightly less speed than they would have had anyone other than Tom Riddle been at the centre of them. Popular theories suggested that he'd received some bad news from home (but then, said those few who knew of Riddle's situation, what home would that be?), that he was worried about failing his upcoming exams (highly unlikely since he was been capable of passing NEWTs in his third year) or, according to some more romantic souls, that he was pining after a love in the Muggle world (those who knew him laughed uproariously whenever this suggestion was made). Surprisingly, however, it was never once suggested that someone had somehow sent him a series of novels from the future which detailed his decent into madness, lunacy and ultimately death, for which Tom was somewhat grateful though hardly stunned.

When at last, just after noon on Sunday, Tom put down _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ he was pale and shaking, with his eyes a good deal wider than he had ever believed possible.

Once the shock had worn off, he slowly piled the books up and wrapped them inside a few sheets of a Daily Prophet that littered the floor of the dormitory. Numb, confused and growing more nervous by the second, Tom slowly made his way out of the room. He walked dazedly across the Slytherin Common Room, where several people called out to him though no one actually attempted to stop him. From the Common Room he went up to the Room of Requirement, where he hid the parcel in the most obscure corner he could possibly find.

Ten minutes later he was back in his dormitory, staring blankly at the wall.

"This won't do," he murmured to the empty room. "This will simply never do."

According to those books, those damnable books, he was going to grow up to become an insane warlord with a snake fetish and a snowball's chance in hell of surviving a set-to with a seventeen-year-old-boy. It was unacceptable.

Mind you, Tom had absolutely nothing against snakes. He rather liked them. He still occasionally visited the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, though he had to admit that it had become harder since Myrtle had taken up residence in that bathroom. However the snake theme had most certainly been taken too far by his future self. As had the disinclination to die.

Not that he wanted to die - in fact he flatly refused to. However he failed to see what the point in living was if he were forced to live in the state described in the novels. Disembodied essence forced to occupy the back of some gullible fool's skull? He rather thought not. Evidently the Horcruxes had also taken their toll on his sanity, as well as his looks, his prioritising skills and his innate charisma. He, for one, refused to become a scaly, albino, snake-loving abomination who was obsessed with a teenaged boy and who was utterly incapable of persuading an idiot like Cornelius Fudge to resign his post without destroying towns.

Cornelius Fudge? That chubby little boy in second year? The sibling of Ebenezer Fudge, the single most gullible twit to ever walk the face of the earth, currently working as a glorified secretary for an over-the-hill oblivator in the Ministry of Magic? For pity's sake, Tom could probably go right up to the Great Hall at that precise moment and get Cornelius Fudge to quit school, dye himself purple, and move to India before they were cleared out of the Great Hall to set up for dinner. AND he wouldn't have to draw his wand once. _Cornelius Fudge_?! When Tom Marvolo Riddle couldn't manipulate that halfwit to do his bidding without employing the help of giants, it was time to throw in the towel and jump off a bridge, in Tom's considered opinion.

Tom was absolutely positive from that moment on that no matter what he would do with his life, no matter what he may become, he would throw himself off Tower Bridge before he was ever forced to drink snake's milk to survive.

With that in mind, Tom got to his feet once more and headed for the library, where he could scheme in peace. There were certain things he was not happy about in his alleged future, and he intended to change them. In order to do this, he would have to change a number of things.

For starters, there were several people that Tom now wanted on _his_ side.


	3. Stage One Of The Brilliant Plan: Failed

His plan was simple, really. Tom still fully intended to take charge of the Wizarding World, and still had little to no intention of dying, but it had been demonstrated to him that his initial plan was far from perfect. One had to adapt.

Therefore, Tom not only had to find some way of becoming Minister of Magic through legitimate channels (a fairly easy task for him, really) but he also had to ensure that Dumbledore was on his side throughout (which would be marginally harder). It would also be quite delightfully helpful if he could find a nice little crusade to start within the Wizarding World to deflect attention from him when he became Minister of Magic, though he supposed that wasn't exactly a requirement.

In an effort to tackle the hardest problem, Tom had set about thinking up ways to get Dumbledore to see things his way. The development of his plan had involved him staying up very late into Sunday night, sitting in the library, researching this Grindlewald character and swearing to himself about the trauma of self-sacrifice. In the end, however, Tom had concluded that it could be done.

He could win Dumbledore over.

He couldn't do it by charming the man or playing the good little student (because god knew, if that worked Dumbledore would've been his puppet since day one), but rather through doing precisely the opposite. He had not yet finalised his plans, but one thing was becoming increasingly apparent: If he was going to pull this off, he was going to need some sort of motivation.

Not his actual motivation of course. If, somewhere done the line, Dumbledore asked why he was doing what he was doing then Tom could hardly respond by saying "Well, professor, it's like this: In my quest for absolute power and immortality I came across these novels…" It simply wouldn't work. And so Tom needed a motivation that he could pull out and hold under a microscope whenever he had to. He needed something foolproof.

Though he loathed to admit it, Tom thought he knew of one motivator that Dumbledore would consider utterly undeniable. That motivator involved nauseating poetry, soppy expressions and declarations of undying emotion. That motivator would probably give Tom the urge to chug down a gallon or two of poison. That motivator was a relationship with Minerva McGonagall. It would probably be the death of him.

He'd looked at it from every possible angle, he'd anticipated every possible question, and the only reason he could come up with for the behaviour he intended to display at a later date would be a major life-changing event. He had considered staging a confrontation with that Gaunt fellow in Little Hangleton, and going on about how he had no desire to turn into that, and that being witness to such depravity had made him see the light. Tom had been hopeful that he could turn that scenario into a good solid motivator. Unfortunately he couldn't have his connection to the Gaunt family being made public too soon - not while the death of a certain whiny, bathroom dweller was still looming over most of the students of Hogwarts.

And so, True Love it was. Sickening, but undeniably efficacious.

Once coming to this conclusion, Tom had naturally tried to think of an alternative to McGonagall. Surely there was someone, anyone, he could 'fall for' who would have the same effect. Sadly, if such a woman existed, Tom could not think of her. The problem was, that just about every other girl in the school would have been quite happily submissive in a relationship with him. A meek and accommodating partner was hardly motivation to change oneself, and so that left most of the girls out in the cold.

Then there was the question of what he was allegedly changing himself into, in order to get Dumbledore on his side: A pathetically upfront, honest individual who would (ostensibly) sacrifice his life in the name of truth, justice and… _puppies_, or whatever it was. Now, what sort of self-righteous harpy would demand that a man be all that and more before she would have anything to do with him? Minerva McGonagall, that's who. Indeed, she was the only self-righteous harpy Tom could think of who met all the requirements. Plus, she was Dumbledore's favourite pupil, so he supposed he was getting his foot in the door on that count as well.

The plan was tactically flawless, and yet somehow depressing.

Tom was not in the least bit concerned about the other implementations that would have to be made, in order for him to acquire the power he desired. With Slughorn, Dippet, and just about everyone else on the planet seemed to be trying their hardest to facilitate his rise to Socially Acceptable Power, then it would be incredibly difficult for him _not_ to go far in the Ministry.

All of this meant that his biggest problem, his most pressing need, the single most important factor in his life at that particular moment, was getting Minerva McGonagall to like him. Tom sighed. Maybe being a snake-loving despot had its upsides after all…

- - -

In his time at Hogwarts, Tom had attempted to maintain civil relations with just about everyone he thought would be useful to him later on. It was only now that he realised McGonagall had not fallen into that category. Therefore, he realised he would have to start slowly if he were to gain her affection. Or, indeed, her indifference, as it was becoming apparent that he would have to try to get rid of her energetic and heartfelt dislike for him, before moving on so far as to even suggest "like" let alone a serviceable façade of "love".

Of course, Tom's initial plan had involved him slowly opening the lines of communication, to let her slowly come to terms with the fact that he was generally fantastic. He would ask her to pass him something in potions, he would catch her eye the next time a horrendously stupid question was asked in Arithmancy, he would take a seat next to her in Charms one day, etc.

Tom hadn't exactly counted on McGonagall's reactions to the above to be hurling potions ingredients at his head or sending him a filthy look in Arithmancy and offering to help the Professor with tutoring duties. He certainly hadn't banked on approaching her in Charms to inquire if he could have the seat next to hers and for her to respond by saying yes he could, and promptly levitating it to the opposite end of the classroom before adding that he could have the chair just so long as it was nowhere near her at the time. All in all, Minerva McGonagall was proving to be an annoyance.

It was only late Monday night when Professor Waterstone, the Astronomy teacher, awarded him five points that it occurred to Tom why McGonagall may be so adverse to his attempts at civil relations.

This revelation was the reason why Tom had gone straight to Professor Dumbledore at the first reasonable opportunity on Tuesday. The first reasonable opportunity, as it turned out, was during the morning break. It was later than Tom would have liked, but it was hardly a dire turn of events. The irony of being forced to seek Dumbledore's assistance to get on McGonagall's good side so that she, in turn, could assist him in getting onto Dumbledore's good side, was not lost on Tom. In fact it was the knowledge of this delightful little irony that had resulted in him wearing a rather terrible scowl as he made his way to the Transfiguration classroom.

At the last moment, he replaced the scowl with a politely expressionless face. All the same, he was hardly in the best of humours when he knocked upon Dumbledore's classroom door.

"Enter!" Dumbledore called welcomingly.

Tom mentally braced himself for the old git's annoyingly optimistic outlook on life, and his stupidly twinkling bloody eyes. God, the lengths he was prepared to go to for success.

After a quick moment of preparation, Tom swung open the door to the Transfiguration room. The sight that greeted him on the other side was a jovial looking Professor Dumbledore, attending to a petrified looking second year who appeared to have had his ears replaced with two ripe avocados. "Professor Dumbledore?" he said respectfully. "Sir, may I have a word with you?"

Dumbledore looked over to him, seeming momentarily surprised at his presence. Not that the great Dumbledore would allow surprise to show on his features, but Tom suspected that was the true emotion underlying his expression. After an almost imperceptible pause, Dumbledore smiled and said "Of course, Mr. Riddle. Come on in. I will only be a moment."

"Thank you, sir," Tom acknowledged, as he moved into the room. He attempted to look comfortable in the room, however he remained standing by the door. He supposed it was something he would have to put a stop to if he was going to get Dumbledore on his side in the future, but Tom always liked to be close to an exit when he was dealing with the Transfiguration professor. He could admit that there was very little about his twinkling blue eyes and trimmed auburn beard that indicated he was a threat, but Tom knew better than most what a sly old dog he was.

More to occupy himself for a moment than to offer himself any actual enlightenment, Tom glanced at the blackboard behind the professor's desk. He was quite surprised to see that the Second Year's allotted task for the lesson was to turn a beetle into a button. They weren't even covering fruit, or human transfiguration. Tom looked at the boy with Dumbledore with slightly more respect. After all, messing up royally during a lesson was rather pitiful. However messing up in a manner that was wholly unrelated to the lesson in question suggested not only a complete disinclination to listen to the teacher (something which Tom appreciated somewhat, since it was Dumbledore and all), but also a healthily developed sense of effrontery. Tom appreciated the boy a lot more if he truly was an audacious little idiot, rather than a whimpering little idiot.

Useless though he knew these pondering were, Tom appreciated such minor distractions. They helped take his mind off his actual reason for being there.

"There we are, Ambrosius," Dumbledore announced after a few more moments, drawing Tom's gaze down to where the boy now stood, ears intact. "I fear they're slightly larger than they were to begin with, though I assure you that is just a side-effect. All will return to normal within a few hours," he assured the boy, who was fondling his freshly restored ears with a worrying amount of gusto. "Still, if you have problems with your hearing at all, do not hesitate to return," Dumbledore instructed, in much the same tone one would use while discussing baking.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm sorry about before, sir, honest I am," Ambrosius rambled gratefully.

"Quite all right, Mr. Flume," Dumbledore dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I quite understand how dull school work can be. Not to mention the insatiable urge one sometimes has to experiment with transforming body parts into fruit while their elders drivel on. All the same, do try to have the homework done before the next lesson, would you? Just to indulge me, you understand,"

Abrosius Flume flushed and stammered his agreement, before heading quickly for the door. In his haste, he very nearly barrelled into Tom's midsection - fortunately (for him) he stopped a few inches short. Without wasting time on such petty trivialities as manners, he continued on his way.

Tom stared after his retreating form with a sense of amazement. He was probably, Tom realised, a rich pureblood. God knew, they were the only ones who ever felt entitled to mess around in class and completely disregard older students. Slughorn would probably have his claws in the little brute within weeks. Little brat.

"Yes. I fear Mr. Flume is always in something of a hurry," Dumbledore said, as though responding to Tom's unspoken annoyance.

"I see, sir," Tom said, for want of anything better to say.

Dumbledore appeared to mourn Flume's slapdash demeanour for a moment, before straightening up and moving behind his desk with a businesslike movement.

Tom took this as a sign to prepare himself for the intensely humiliating discussion that was about to occur, and as such arranged his features into a look of polite inquiry and mild concern.

"You wished to speak with me, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore asked, as he began to pile up the papers on his desk.

Tom nodded. "Yes, Professor."

"Well, I would recommend that you do so quickly, as our highly-valued morning interlude is trickling further and further away from us every minute," Dumbledore commented. It was said with apparent good humour, but the implied 'get on with it' was hardly lost on Tom.

"Of course, sir," he agreed. "I came to you, sir, because…" he trailed off, just to pique Dumbledore's interest. It must've worked, because the old git looked up from his papers with an expression of obligatory interest. Tom tried again, feigning discomfort. "You see, sir, it's not exactly… well, what I mean to say is that I wished to talk to you about Minerva McGonagall."

As expected, Dumbledore's expression changed from obligatory interest to actual interest in an instant. The difference wasn't one that most people would have noticed, particularly not on Professor Dumbledore, but Tom prided himself on his perceptiveness. "Yes?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Well, sir, I checked the book this morning and I noticed that Gryffindor hadn't received any House Points for the incident in the dungeons on Thursday?" He put an inflection at the end of his sentence to make it sound like a question, but even Dumbledore seemed quite certain it wasn't. As if to prove this, he answered with a question of his own.

"Indeed?" he responded, in a tone which communicated quite clearly that he knew precisely what Tom was talking about but wouldn't be sharing the details anytime soon.

"Yes, sir," Tom replied. "And I was wondering why this was?"

"I hope you will forgive me Mr. Riddle, but could you perhaps elucidate?"

"Sir, I was wondering why Minerva McGonagall hadn't received any points," Tom clarified. "Since I can't help but think that her behaviour under the circumstances was more commendable than mine."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "And why is that, Mr. Riddle?" he inquired.

Any other student may have become frustrated with this exchange: Whenever Tom asked a question, Dumbledore asked another one in response. As it was, Tom was quite used to exchanges like this with Dumbledore. It seemed that the Professor was relentless in his crusade to force Tom into making definitive statements, rather than the highly ambiguous - but seemingly decisive - answers he normally gave teachers. Normally, Tom would have allowed the conversation to continue like this until either the school bell rang (likely), Dumbledore was called away by some other pressing matter (also likely) or one of them died (which until recently was the only end to their mutual antagonism that Tom had considered). This time, however, he had an ulterior motive. In actual fact, now that he thought about it, his ulterior motive also had an ulterior motive. But that was neither here nor there. The point was that Tom was no longer interested in antagonising Dumbledore. Well, he was actually, but he now realised that he had to suppress that particular impulse.

Tom allowed himself to appear surprised. "I would have thought Professor Slughorn would have mentioned it, sir," he said, sounding confused. "When Augusta Meldrum's cauldron went up in Potions, Minerva stayed in the room to help, despite losing her wand in the blast. She dragged Meldrum herself to the exit and everything, even though her wand was on the other side of the room. She'd just taken it out when the cauldron went up, you see," Tom explained, as he was actively trying to quell the urge to curse _himself_ for sounding like such a soppy twit. He was also trying to ignore how unutterably bizarre it was to refer to McGonagall by her first name, since he realised that he would probably have to get used to it.

Dumbledore appeared contemplative. "And why, precisely, would Miss. McGonagall have taken her wand out in the Potions' Room?" he asked.

The older man was standing at his full height, now having abandoned any pretences that he had some incredibly important tidying to attend to. He was regarding Tom with that icy-blue gaze that seemed to be trying incredibly hard to look right through you, and which he seemed to reserve specifically for Tom. Having read those Potter Novels, and seen what Dumbledore was capable of, Tom had to admit that the gaze seemed to have become more unnerving recently.

There wasn't a lot he could do about the expression, however, so he soldiered on even as his flesh began to crawl under such scrutiny.

"That's the other thing, Professor," he said admitted with a one-armed shrug. He liked to think of it as a demonstration of The Idiot's Guide To Looking Bashful. He'd never had to look bashful before, so it was quite difficult for him.

"What's that, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore prompted, his eyebrows raised speculatively.

"Well, sir, I asked about that at the time. It turns out Minerva was trying to disarm Meldrum, to stop her adding the ingredient which caused the accident."

Dumbledore's eyebrows had yet to return to their regular altitude, which Tom chose to take as an indicator of surprise at his words.

Encouraging this response, Tom continued, "It seems to me, sir, that trying to avoid an accident which even the teacher didn't see coming is more worthy of House Points than simply following the logical procedures, after all the damage has been done." And, before Dumbledore could point out the obvious flaw in his behaviour, Tom explained, "I would have come to you earlier about this, Professor, but Minerva left the room before me and so I suppose I just assumed that she'd been awarded the points."

"I see," was Dumbledore's somewhat anticlimactic response.

They stood there, watching one another closely for a minute more. Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for Tom to do something, such as scratch his face or play with the buttons on his shirt, or give some other classic sign that he had and ulterior motive. Tom, for his part, was putting all of his effort into staying very still and maintaining his innocent expression. He had to admit, that he had less experience with the innocent look than he did with all the others, so it was quite tricky.

Eventually, however, Dumbledore seemed convinced. "Thank you for coming to me, Mr. Riddle. I'll be certain to tell _Minerva_ of your gallantry," he assured him, as he once again returned to his absentminded tidying.

The slight inflection on McGonagall's name was barely perceptible, but Tom caught it. He couldn't tell if Dumbledore was making fun of him or not, but he somehow suspected that was the case.

"You understand, of course, that I cannot possibly award points to a student as a result of events that I, myself, was not witness to," Dumbledore continued.

Tom nearly did a double-take. "I… Pardon me, sir, but - what?"

Dumbledore repeated himself matter-of-factly, while Tom just stared at him.

For a second or two, he was seriously considering screaming '_You did it for that Potter brat often enough, you hypocritical old fool!_' or, more specifically, '_What? You can't do this, but you can magically surmise that some ginger kid in the future played the best game of chess Hogwarts has ever seen? You've seen every game of chess in Hogwarts history, have you then?_' He caught himself before he resorted to saying anything quite so dramatic, though. Which was fortunate, as unlike his former-future-self, he had no intention of being branded a certifiable lunatic before the age of eighteen. Instead he said, "I understand, sir. Would you recommend that I speak with Professor Slughorn then?"

Dumbledore appeared to consider it for a moment. "I suppose you could, yes," he acknowledged, though it did not sound as though he put very much stock in the idea.

Since they both knew that Horace Slughorn would sooner bite off his own hand than admit fault (meaning that the chances of him changing to points he had awarded were slim at best), Tom couldn't really blame Professor Dumbledore for his lack of enthusiasm. Rather than dwell on it, Tom began to search for a loophole. Being extremely adept at inexplicit declarations himself, Tom was generally quite good at spotting the holes in other people's apparently definitive statements.

He could spot one way around the problem presented, but it would cause him even more pain than this horrific encounter already had. "Sir?" he said in a voice that was ostensibly curious, but may have sounded the slightest bit strained and bitter.

"Yes, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore smiled.

"Sir, if you can't _award_ points…" he began.

"Ye-es?"

"Well, sir, then perhaps you could simply _reassign_ them?"

- - -

All the way through History of Magic, Tom was fighting the urge to swear vehemently under his breath. _Thirty-five points_, he kept thinking. Thirty-five bloody point.

The average Hogwarts student was awarded five points every week, and then lost most of them by talking in class like an idiot. So if Tom were to judge himself against his fellow students (which he rarely did, but found himself doing in this instance), he had just given up seven weeks worth of House Points. Well, six weeks really, since Dumbledore had awarded him five points for chivalry.

All for Minerva sodding McGonagall, who would probably just think it was some sort of trick anyway. Had it been ten points, or maybe fifteen, then she could have easily been convinced that it was done in the name of fairness and equality. But thirty-five points? From him?

She would assume he was up to something. What, specifically, she would assume he was up to, he couldn't really say. All he could say with a reasonable degree of certainty was that she would be extra wary around him for the rest of term, if something wasn't done to sway her opinion. Of course, he couldn't sway her opinion until he learned what her specific opinion was. Only then could he compensate for this appalling accident.

Tom sighed. He supposed he could just jump off that bridge when he came to it.

At the moment, however, he had the slightly more pressing concern of surviving lunch with the rest of his House. His which was, at the moment, still unaware of his Chivalrous Sacrifice but which would probably be enlightened within five seconds of entering the Great Hall. With this delightful thought in mind, Tom set off after his classmates who were making their way towards the Great Hall in blissful ignorance of his barely-contained diatribe.

As he went, Tom found himself internally quoting old Mrs. Cole for perhaps the first time in his life. The quote in question was particularly applicable and was, ultimately, a nugget of wisdom which Tom wished he'd paid attention to earlier:

_Never trust a man with a beard._

- - -

Twenty minutes later, Tom was thinking of abandoning the "anti-Muggle-born" tact and instead starting a militant group of anti-beard activists. They could roam the streets with razors and shaving cream, removing the single greatest threat to a civilised society: Men with facial hair.

Tom's thoughts had started drifting in this general direction when it had become apparent that his fellow Slytherins were purposefully ignoring him. It was their version of dire punishment - not talking to him for one lunchtime. Tom wasn't actually concerned, because the minute one of them settled in to do homework after lessons, they'd all suddenly be his bestest friends once more. No, the point was that he was only having to put up with this rather irksome display because Dumbledore had been a complete and total hypocrite.

Or, rather, he had set himself up to _become_ a complete and total hypocrite in a hypothetical future that only Tom knew about and may not even exist. So Tom couldn't even rant at anyone about it.

His one small recompense was that it would open the lines of communication with Minerva McGonagall. Her line of communication would probably consist of blatantly unoriginal invective and suspicion, but it was communication nonetheless. Tom looked up from his plate for a moment to spare a glare in Dumbledore's direction. At the staff table Dumbledore was talking to Professor Slughorn, who was looking more and more stunned as conversation progressed, and also shooting Tom the occasional awed expression. Tom rolled his eyes and went back to his dinner.

Well, it was official: _that_ plan had been a failure.

"Riddle!" an impatient voice snapped from behind him.

Tom jerked his head around, while his hand twitched subconsciously for his wand. A movement he quickly disguised when he saw who it was. He also pretended not to notice the sudden, conspicuous hush that had fallen on the Slytherin table at the sight of Minerva McGonagall appearing in their midst. McGonagall apparently did not possess as much tact. She sent a sharp look around the table, and just about everyone who wasn't Tom hurriedly pretended to be eating once more. They were still unnaturally quiet, however, just to make sure they didn't miss anything good.

"McGonagall," Tom greeted in his most accommodating tone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, hoping to whatever God may be listening that she was not about to discuss the House Points incident in front of all of Slytherin House.

She raised a single eyebrow elegantly, her disdain for him quite obvious. "Do you know Amelia Bones?" she asked in a 'I have better things to be doing with my time' kind of tone.

Tom frowned and wracked his brains for a moment. "Bones… Bones… That fifth year Hufflepuff girl who was bedridden last month?"

McGonagall nodded, and began shuffling around in her gigantic leather book-bag, which seemed to be perilously close to splitting at the seams. For a moment, her only other act was to swipe impatiently at what few strands of sable-coloured hair had managed to escape her mercilessly tight ponytail.

"Dragon pox or something, wasn't it?" Tom prompted, attempting to encourage her to get to some kind of point.

Once again, McGonagall nodded. "It was. Well, I was asked to tutor her in Arithmancy to help her get caught up," she said, still refusing to raise her head from her horrifyingly full bag. "I'm already helping quite a few others," she continued sanctimoniously. "But Amelia's sessions would clash with Gryffindor's Quidditch practise."

It wasn't very often Tom was confused by other people's agendas, but it did occasionally happen. "Yes? And?" he inquired. True, he was supposed to be wooing her, but he'd had a bad day so he was impatient.

She finally emerged from the book bag, with a brimming paper folder in hand. She smirked at him. "And so I told Professor Brodick you'd do it," she announced as she thrust the folder at him. "Since yesterday you were so keen to agree with me about everything, I assumed that would translate to tutoring as well."

Tom gaped at her.

"She'll be waiting for you in the Library at seven o'clock tonight," McGonagall continued vindictively. "Don't be late, will you? She's still quite weak from the illness, and you wouldn't want her to fall asleep before you get there." She smirked once again. "Have fun," she remarked sardonically before turning on her heel and heading for the Gryffindor table, where Emmeline Vance and the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team was waiting for her. Presumably to ask why she'd been talking to him, of all people.

Tom's hand twitched for his wand once again. This time, however, it had nothing to do with surprise.

Before returning to his lunch, Tom sneaked a look at Dumbledore. Though the older man's eyes were, ostensibly on his dinner, Tom could tell he was aware of what happened. Mainly because Slughorn had already left, and his auburn beard was quivering with barely contained laughter.

It was all being done for the sake of the big picture, he told himself. He kept on telling himself as much for the rest of the day. It didn't calm him down, but it did stop him from going over the edge.

- - -

Six hours later and Tom was on his way to the library. Not only had he gone over Amelia Bones' Arithmancy file, but he had also gone up to the Room of Requirement to take a gander at those damned books. He knew he'd read her name in their somewhere and I wanted to know where. It turned out that young Madam Bones was not, as it turned out, destined to be a good-for-nothing, pox-ridden waste of oxygen forever. In fact, she was destined to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and was also destined to murdered "nastily" and personally by his future-self. This fact alone was enough to make Tom decide that he should get her on his side as soon as possible. This meant actually paying attention to his tutoring session with her.

Indeed, he was paying so much attention to the tutoring session, that he very nearly didn't notice young Ambrosius Flume chasing after him. Ambrosius Flume, the young gentleman who was apparently always in a hurry and who would (allegedly) become owner of Honeydukes one day, was yelling his name with great gusto from the other end of the hallway Tom had just moved down.

Tom froze in his tracks at the sound, a part of him dearly wishing to yank the little twerp up into the air using the spell described in those Potter novels, and leaving him hanging there for eternity. Just to teach him some manners. Instead, he turned slowly around and regarded the mousy little pipsqueak politely.

"You called?" he said sarcastically as Flume sprinted towards him, panting from the effort.

He skidded to a halt beside Tom, looking decidedly worse for wear. "Pro-pr-" Ambrosius exhaled sharply. "Professor Slughorn would like to know if you…" he coughed mid-sentence. It sounded quite painful. "If you have anyone you would like invited to his Christmas Party this year?" he asked at last.

Tom raised his eyebrows. "What on Earth are you drivelling about?" he sighed.

Flume seemed to be recovering slightly. He was, at the very least, sucking in air by that point. Tom supposed that was a sign of improvement. "Professor Slughorn said that he'd been-" Another few gasps for breath. "He'd been talking to Professor Dumbledore, and was under the impression that there might be 'a certain someone' you'd like to invite to the Christmas Party this year."

Tom considered for a moment. It was fairly obvious that Slughorn had heard some garbled version of events from Dumbledore, and had therefore decided that Tom was lusting after McGonagall. Which, at the very least, meant that his plan was working. At the most, it was very helpful. However there had to be better things he could do with that one invite…

"Tell Professor Slughorn that I mean to bring a partner to this year's party," he instructed the still-exhausted second year in front of him. "Also tell him that I would be much obliged if he could arrange for me to have a private discussion with him before the holidays are done, as I'd like to discuss my career. As soon as possible." Ambrosius Flume was still beetroot-red and looked extremely disinclined to move at that particular moment. Tom stared at him politely for a minute longer before exchanging his expression for a more menacing one. "Now, if you please," he added.

Ambrosius moved. Quickly.

Quite pleased that Slughorn had been so unexpectedly helpful, Tom resumed his journey to the library. It occurred to him that if he could get the future Head of Magical Law Enforcement as an ally, it would hardly be a hindrance further in his career. Especially if all went as planned with Slughorn.

As Tom entered the library, he could spot exactly one girl who could have possibly been Amelia Bones. She was small, pale, painfully skinny and quite nervous looking. Her strawberry blonde hair hung lankly, covering her face. She was sitting facing the door, but she was obviously in a world of her own as she stared at a medieval picture book.

Tom adopted his most charming grin and strode towards her. Unlike McGonagall, this girl looked like she might have actually had a crush on another human being at some point in her life, so the charm tactic might work with her. "Hello," he said blithely. "You are Amelia Susan Bones, aren't you? I don't think we've been introduced. My name is Tom Riddle and I'm going to be your Arithmancy tutor. It's a pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand to her.

Amelia Susan Bones stared up at him from between two curtains of thick hair. A blush slowly seemed to spread across her face, and it took her a moment to realise that she was actually expected to respond. She went to take his hand, but realised she couldn't do it from her current position.

As she awkwardly pushed the chair away from the table and promptly tumbled to the floor in an over-excited tangle of limbs and, Tom assumed, hormones, one thing became apparent: He already had the future Head of Magical Law Enforcement under his thumb.

Surely the rest of the Ministry couldn't be far behind?


End file.
